


Defense Against The Dark Arts With Professor Umino

by AvocadoLove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Umino Iruka, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eventual Happy Ending, Good Draco Malfoy, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Order of the Phoenix AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AvocadoLove
Summary: Book 5 AU: With no witch or wizard willing to take the Defense Against The Dark Arts job except Umbridge, Dumbledore is forced to look elsewhere.He hires a shinobi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... years ago I wrote a couple crack one-shots where Iruka teaches DADA. Then, BAM out of nowhere a full-fledged plot springs out of it. Huh. (Those cracky one-shots will be included in this plotty fic. No worries.) Sometimes the muse wants what the muse wants.
> 
> IN THIS CHAPTER  
> "Blah, blah, blah." = JAPANESE  
>  _"Blah, blah, blah."_ = ENGLISH  
>  This will be reversed once the story gets to Hogwarts. (There will be notes.)
> 
> FINALLY: This chapter is a little... heavy. Please trust in the fact that this isn't my first rodeo, and I have tagged this fic appropriately.

_Let us remember: One book, one pen, one child, and one teacher can change the world._

\- Malala Yousafzai

 

Iruka felt the ANBU's presence before the children did. Pausing mid-lecture, he turned with chalk in hand.

Cat and Crane stood politely at the door. Shizune, the Hokage's assistant, stood with them.

 _Oh_ , Iruka thought. _They're here for me._

A door slammed shut in his mind: he locked grief, shock, and fear away behind it. His student's eyes were on him, and it was his responsibility to show them how to properly react when the worst happened.

Most of the kids (the ones who weren't half asleep—it was a difficult lecture on the theory of the Fabian strategy by wearing down one’s enemies through targeted skirmishes) had followed his gaze, and the air became crystalline with dread.

Everyone with shinobi families knew what news two unannounced ANBU brought.

Iruka strode calmly across the room, then bowed to Shizune and the ANBU, who bowed back.

"Is it Naruto?" Iruka asked through stiff lips.

Shizune gave him a soft, sad look. "Naruto's safe, Iruka-sensei. I'll take over your class this afternoon."

Not Naruto. Then... Then...

His mind shied away from completing the thought. (He would not break in front of his students.) Instead, Iruka handed Shizune the stub of chalk, as if passing a baton. "We are discussing skirmishes as a technique against a more powerful enemy. My notes are on the desk."

"Thank you, Iruka-sensei."

He and Shizune exchanged places, and Iruka followed the ANBU to the hall.

Once out of view of the class, Cat laid one hand on Iruka’s shoulder. He didn't fight the man's chakra as a swirl of leaves whisked them to the morgue.  
Iruka disliked this building—he didn't know anyone who did like it. The air was too cold, and as clean as the staff kept it, the scent of blood never quite went away. Iruka just kept moving forward. The door holding back his emotions rattled in its frame, but stayed tightly shut.  


There were people waiting for him in the next room over, but Iruka’s gaze was all for Naruto. The boy looked wretched, the muscles ticking wildly on his chin in his effort to hold back tears.

Silently, Naruto held a familiar black hitai-ate across his palms. Iruka took it, the metal plate clicked softly against his wedding ring. With his free hand, he reached to grip Naruto's shoulder. "You're safe? You're not hurt?"

Naruto shook his head, too choked to speak.

"We're safe, Iruka-sensei," Sakura piped up from behind him. Sasuke grunted his agreement.

"Iruka-sensei," said a female voice.

He glanced up and noticed belatedly that Tsunade was there as well. On any other day, Iruka would be embarrassed he didn’t greet her with respect. Now, all he could see was that she stood before a sheet covered body on an autopsy table.

"Would you care to view the body?" she asked.

Which was how Iruka found himself staring down at Kakashi. He still wore his uniform, his mask in place. His eyes, uncovered because Iruka held his hitai-ate, were peacefully closed.

He looked like he was asleep.

He'd been dead for enough time for rigamortis to set in. His skin, when Iruka laid his hand on his cheek, was cold, the neck stiff and unmoving.

 _What was the last thing I said to him?_ Iruka thought, with sudden, sharp panic. _Did I nag him to take out the trash? No, I’d never… Not before a mission. Even an easy one that this was supposed to be. I must have told him to go and come back--I made him break that promise. Why didn't I tell him I loved him, so he heard that one last time..._

Grief and rage and sucking despair banged on the other side of his mental door. Iruka clenched his fist and held it shut by force of will.

Distantly, he heard the voices of his former students speaking to Tsunade. They were giving their report.

A part of Iruka knew he would want to hear this—he would want to know how and why Kakashi died: What he’d given his life for.

It all washed over him as noise, until one thing Naruto said stood out from the rest.

"...never heard a Jutsu like it before. _Abracadabra_ , or something. And there was green light—"

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," Iruka corrected absently. That would explain why Kakashi's body was unmarked.

The room had gone silent. Iruka felt a prickle up his neck and turned to see everyone looking curiously.

"Something to add, Sensei?" Tsunade asked.

Iruka’s voice sounded calm and remote. Still stuck in lecture-mode it seemed. "It's a wizard jutsu for instant death—one of their few fatal techniques," Iruka said. Kakashi wouldn't have felt anything, wouldn't have known he was dying.

... Why didn't that feel like a mercy?

Naruto scrunched up his face. "…Wizard?"

"Wizards aren't allowed in the five countries without an escort," Sasuke said.

"How do you know this?" Tsunade asked.

"My grandmother on my mother's side immigrated from one of their countries, England, before the borders shut," Iruka said. It was no secret. It was in his file. "Were any carrying wands? They’d look like sticks. Ten to twelve centimeters long?"

Naruto and Sasuke looked at each other in confusion. Sakura stepped forward. "We were fighting three missing nin on the other end of the field. Kakashi-sensei had joined forces with Jokari-san and Gyuniku-san to take down a swordsman."

"The other two jounin were killed with kunai," Tsunade said.

“I see.” It was a reflex. He didn’t. Two men of jounin rank killed with kunai, when they’d been fighting a swordsman, and the village’s most elite felled by a mere wizard?

Tsunade gaze was fixed so intently on Iruka and if he were in another frame of mind he'd be unnerved. Now, he only felt numb.

Naruto stepped forward, curling a hand around Iruka’s elbow. "Let's get you home, Sensei."

 

* * *

 

When his parents had been killed, Iruka learned the hard lesson that life moved on. No matter what. As a child, it had enraged him: how could people keep living, keep laughing when his mother and father were dead? When Iruka had been all alone with a grief so wide and deep he felt like he was drowning?

He'd acted out. Played pranks. Been a complete hellion so someone--anyone would see him and his pain.

Now as a supposedly more responsible adult he couldn't do that. He had an example to set, a grieving Team 7 to watch out for. Classes to teach.

(Well, he could express himself in the healthy ninja way and kill a few Konoha's enemies, but he wasn't a usual field agent and his requests for high ranking missions kept getting denied.)

So he lived on. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. He made himself eat at least twice a day—dinner was accompanied by Naruto, Gai, or Yamato more often than not. Tried and failed to sleep.  He packed up Kakashi's belongings in their shared house and put them in storage. Accepted the paperwork with deeds to Hatake holdings, and promptly locked them in a safe, with the intention of never opening it again.

And if the world had become gray and lifeless, as if he'd become unanchored from his life and set adrift at sea... well.

He spent hours, sometimes, twisting his wedding ring around and around his finger. As shinobi custom, it had been imbued with a little of Kakashi's chakra for Iruka to always carry with him. The fact it hadn't dissipated with Kakashi’s death spoke more of Iruka clinging onto his memory than Kakashi's power. Kakashi's own ring was lifeless and dead, the sliver of Iruka’s chakra wiped away in the same jutsu that had killed him.

At night he dreamed Kakashi was alive. They danced at their wedding. They sat at the same table at restaurants, quietly chatting with their knees and calves pressed to one another in a secret only they shared. They trained — Kakashi could kick Iruka’s ass without even trying, but occasionally Iruka could surprise him.

Every morning Iruka woke alone in his bed and had to remind himself that Kakashi wasn’t coming back.

Six weeks after Kakashi died, Iruka received a message bird for him to go to the Hokage’s tower. Maybe one of his requests for an out-of-village mission had gone through. Maybe his quality of work had slipped and Tsunade was about to yell at him to snap out of it.

Iruka couldn’t find it in himself to care, either way.

When he first walked into her office, he thought he had come at the wrong time. Tsunade sat at her desk across from a man even older than the Third had been, dressed in heavy blue robes.

 _A wizard_ , Iruka realized, dully.

Tsunade looked up and beckoned him in. "Ah, Iruka-sensei. We were waiting for you. This is Dumbledore-san.” She looked pointedly at Iruka. “I assume you've kept up your English?"

So, Tsunade had bothered to read up on Iruka's file. His grandmother had taught the language to him before she died, and he occasionally spoke it with foreign merchants, to keep up the practice.

 _"Yes, Lady Tsunade,"_ he said, in that language. _"Though I am told I have an accent."_

 _“You’re perfectly understandable.”_ The old man smiled. _"I understand you're the grandson of Delphina Black.”_

 _“Yes.”_ Iruka inclined his head politely, wondering what this was about. Surely, no one would have business with his grandmother after so many years? _“I was named for her.”_

_“I knew her as a young woman in school. She was a powerful witch—utterly devious with charms."_

Iruka nodded. _"I remember her using her witch magic to clean the house and cook family meals. I'm sorry to tell you she passed away two years prior to the Kyuubi attack on our village."_

"Yes, yes, it’s clear from both your prattling that he’s fluent," Tsunade interrupted in Japanese. It appeared she didn't know the language, and didn’t appreciate being left out.

"Have a seat, Iruka-sensei. Dumbledore-san here is the current headmaster of their Wizard and Witch school."

"Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Dumbledore elaborated. "It is a fine institution. One of the best schools for magic in the world, if you don’t mind my very biased opinion.” He studied Iruka over half-moon glasses. “This year we have an opening for a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I was hoping to interest you in the position."

 

* * *

 

 

  
Iruka waited until Dumbledore had left the room before he looked to Tsunade. "Permission to speak freely?"

"You want to know if this has anything to do with Hatake's death," she said wryly. "Of course it does."

Iruka took in a sharp breath. His heart pounded with something akin to eagerness. "What is the rank of this mission?" He wasn't a fool. Dumbledore had spoken of generous pay for Hogwarts’s professors, the chance to mold new minds, and the extensive library in case Iruka was the researching type.

But Iruka was a shinobi first. Teacher second. He read underneath the underneath. The fact Tsunade had allowed Iruka to be interviewed was as good as an order to accept.

Tsunade took a scroll and slid it across the table. The chakra seals indicated it was of the highest rank.

"I’m not complaining,” Iruka said carefully as he accepted the scroll, “But wouldn’t Ebisu-sensei be better assigned to an S-rank?”

"He can’t speak English, and we both know you'd rate Special Jounin if you ever pried yourself out of the Academy." She snorted indelicately and reached under her table, bringing up a bottle of sake and two cups. She spoke as she poured, "What Dumbledore-san neglected to tell both of us is their entire blasted country is on the brink of civil war. They have a Dark Lord who fancies himself as their new overruler."

"What does this have to do with Konoha?" What does this have to do with who killed Kakashi?

"We suspect the people who targeted Team 7 are working for, or along with, this new Dark Lord. They call themselves," she paused and words came out heavy with the unfamiliar words. "Death Eaters."

Iruka blinked. "Death Eaters?" he translated back into Japanese.

"Eh? Well, that’s a name filled with charm." She lifted her cup and clinked it against his own. "Kanpai."

They drank. It burned all the way down in a way that didn't relieve a quarter of his pain.

“Why did your grandmother cross the border?" Tsunade asked. “Our file on her was limited.”

"She was under threat from a previous Dark Lord, I believe,” he said, adding dryly, “It's a reoccurring problem in Europe."

Tsunade nodded and laced her fingers, collecting her thoughts. "Dumbledore-san wants a shinobi within his walls to teach his children to defend themselves properly. To prepare them for the upcoming war. No doubt when the time comes, he will try to convince you to fight for their side."

"Should I let him?" Iruka asked bluntly.

"You are to protect your students as any sensei would, but Konoha has no stake in wizard matters. No,” she shook her head. “Fighting their battles for them will not be your primary objective.”

He nodded and she filled his cup again before she spoke.

“All of our intelligence about their country comes second or third hand, from immigrants such as your grandmother. We haven't had such an opportunity for a spy on the inside in generations. Use the good sense you’re so known for, Sensei. I want constant reports on this brewing war, and what we are to expect from these people afterward.” Her voice grew icy. "And you are to find out whatever you can about who killed Kakashi Hatake, and why. Then eliminate them."

This was the sort of mission assigned to ANBU. Iruka was only a chuunin, but he didn't hesitate for a second.

"I accept."

"I thought you might. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you signed up for every dangerous mission that crosses the mission desk." She looked hard at him. "Naruto's worried about you. He isn't the only one."

"I do my duty to Konoha," he said stiffly.

"Some might say Kakashi’s death snuffed out your Will of Fire.”

He bristled, even though deep down he suspected it was true. "Death is a part of shinobi life."

"That's what we tell ourselves, yes." She said in a gentle manner of another who had also suffered a loss. "We tell ourselves that existing is living, and that living is moving on. Teach these wizard children the Will of Fire, Iruka-sensei. Perhaps you will find it again, in yourself."

 

 

 

*** 

**Thanks for reading! I just wanted to point out _again_ that the tags for this fic are accurate. Put away your character death pitchforks, please. :)**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to get Iruka to Hogwarts by the end of this chapter, but life got in the way and I've had to split it up into two parts. Look for another update soon! 
> 
> Also, I took some liberties with shadow clones and oiroke no jutsu.

 

Iruka knew he was dreaming.

In real life, Kakashi had dotted a kiss on the corner of Iruka’s mouth before he pulled up his mask and said, "I’m leading Team 7 on a dead-drop retrieval."

"Courier mission?" Iruka asked absently, glancing up from the scroll he was grading.

Kakashi rolled his shoulder in a languid shrug and scratched the back of his neck. "Maa. Well, it is to the heart of Rain. The Old Lady's giving us a week. I say three days."

Which meant Iruka should bet on two weeks. Kakashi’s habitual lateness aside, Team 7 attracted trouble like iron filings to a magnet. He smiled. "Go and come back."

The next time he saw Kakashi would be on the autopsy table.

In Iruka’s dream, however, he stood and curled his fingers in Kakashi's flack jacket. They kissed, slow and deep. A lingering goodbye.

Iruka thought, _Don't leave... Don’t walk out that door._

Even knowing what would happen during the mission, he couldn't dishonor himself—dishonor _Kakashi_ by making that request.

Then they were in bed, in the instant way of dreams, moving languidly against one another as if they had all the time in the world.

Kakashi rolled his hips against Iruka. "My, my, Sensei. Are you trying to make me late?"

"Tell your team you were waylaid by a succubus," Iruka suggested.

Kakashi barked a laugh. One hand rested over Iruka's heart—he could feel his own heartbeat racing under his touch. Kakashi's gray-blue eye went dark with wistful sadness. "I need to leave."

"I know," Iruka whispered. "Kakashi, I—"

 

* * *

 

  
Iruka was woken to a sharp tapping on his bedroom window.

He was half-standing before he was fully awake, the kunai he kept under his pillow in a throwing grip. He caught it back at the last moment.

There was a flock of owls sitting on his windowsill.

His grandmother had occasionally received owl-post, he remembered. From old friends she’d left behind when she’d immigrated. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Most of the owls had reams of scrolls tied to their legs. A few carried heavy books between them. And they were perched there in the light of early morning, perfectly visible to anyone who carried to see.

In fact, Iruka caught the sounds of laughter and comments from villagers outside. Within an hour, he’d be the subject of most of the gossips.

Did these wizards have no sense of discretion? Irritated, he stood to his full height then realized his cheeks were cold and wet from the dream—he’d been crying in his sleep.

He clenched his fist. Kakashi’s ghostly chakra, embedded into the wedding ring, pressed against his skin. It was a balm and a reminder of what he’d never have again…

 _Get a hold of yourself, Shinobi_ , Iruka told himself firmly.

Rubbing his face dry on his sleeve, he stepped over and flung open the window. "Come inside, quickly!"

The owls fluttered in, and Iruka relieved them of their burdens. A few helped themselves to the remains of last night’s tsukimi udon before hop-fluttering away.

It appeared that Dumbledore had sent the syllabuses of the last few Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. The most recent was from a man called Alastor Moody, the previous Remus Lupin, Gilderoy Lockhart, and so on. There was also a thick stack of paperwork detailing the Ministry of Magic standard requirements for O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T. testing.

The spells were foreign to Iruka, as he was not a wizard. But the concepts of defense and the few allowed offensive moves were at least familiar, if incredibly simplistic. And it appeared in the Ministry did not want the students practicing spells on one another. Not even for sparring practice.

 _How useless_ , he thought. It seemed criminal to him to send children out into the world with no practical self-defense knowledge, other than theory.

Also, Hogwarts students were older than he expected. The first years entering school were genin-age, the oldest seventeen or eighteen upon graduation.

He had known from his grandmother’s stories that wizards practiced their magic differently than shinobi, but until now he did not realize there was this much difference.

One lone owl stayed behind on his windowsill, as if waiting for further orders. It soon became apparent why.

The final form was a note from Dumbledore asking Iruka send textbook requirements for the incoming classes. After a moment’s thought, he jotted down _The Art of War_ by _Sun Tzu_ , who had not been a shinobi or a wizard, but wise in the way of tactics. 

After tying the slip of paper to the owl’s leg and sending it on its way, he settled back to his kotatsu and go over the paperwork again.

He had much work to do.

It wasn't until later that night, the paperwork spread across his table, and his dinner half-eaten, that Iruka realized he had spent the entire day in lesson planning. He couldn't remember the last time he had lost himself like that. Before Kakashi's death, certainly.

Perhaps this would be good for him, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't like that you’ll be all by yourself for an entire year, Iruka-sensei," Naruto said. He was “helping” Iruka pack, but the unspoken truth was both were stalling before they had to say goodbye.

Iruka paused before sealing his collection of kunai into a storage scroll he’d take with him. He’d already sorted through tags and a collection of barrier seals he liked to use for combat. "I won’t be alone. I will have a weekly point of contact," he said carefully. He could only tell Naruto the details of the mission as he had now become Iruka's soul emergency contact. Still, Naruto couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

Naruto scowled. "What if somebody attacks you? What if they use that _Abracadabra_ jutsu again?"

"I doubt someone will be throwing that around in the school.”

Naruto looked like he was on the verge of pulling out his hair. “Still!”

Turning, Iruka ruffled his hair as he used to do when Naruto was a genin. “Statistically, you will be in far more danger than me. You’re out in the field."

"Dooooon’t,” Naruto whined, twisting away from the hair-ruffling with a pretend scowl. “I can take care of myself."

"And so can I. Don't worry about me, Naruto. It's the job of the older generation to worry about the younger generation." That was what his own father had told him, right before he died. Iruka hoped it wasn't a bad omen.

Naruto screwed up his face into a grimace. "Hey… What do you know about shadow clones, Sensei?"

"Far less than you, I imagine." His lips twitched into something that might have almost been a smile.

"Yeah, but…" Naruto shifted from foot-to-foot just the way he used to do as a small boy when he was about to do something that he knew would get him in trouble.

Recognizing pending danger, Iruka set down the storage scroll and raised his eyebrows.

Naruto grimaced. "You should use them. Shadow clones, I mean."

"I prefer water clones, when I need something corporeal," Iruka said, "and you shouldn't go around speaking about techniques that are technically still in the forbidden scroll."

He screwed up his face again, then blurted out. "Yeah, but if you use shadow clones, then you won't really be alone. It’s like having a whole team with you. And when you disperse one—"

"Naruto—"

"You get your clones’ memories added to your own. So, it's like ultimate-spying, but without the danger, see?"

Iruka stared at him. "You shouldn't be telling me things that are in that scroll."

"Yeah, but I'm going to be Hokage anyway, then I'll be able to choose who knows what. So it doesn't matter."

Iruka resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Naruto, that's not how secrets work."

But he couldn't unring this particular bell, and the ramifications of what Naruto was telling him was… Staggering. "Who else knows?"

"Kakashi-sensei for sure. He's the one who told me. Since I can create, like a million clones, I can reduce any training I want into a few hours." Naruto looked anxiously at Iruka, pain on his face. "I'm sure he would've wanted you to know, too. Only, you don't usually go on the field so there wasn’t a reason…"

Once again, Iruka was reminded that he hadn’t just lost a spouse when Kakashi died. Naruto had lost something like a parental figure. It wasn’t a wonder he was being anxious and clingy… for Naruto. "I’ll take it into consideration, and use it if I can.” He forced a smile that came out like a grimace. “My chakra stores aren’t nearly like yours, you know.”

"Oh I know," he said breezily, "but you're not like Shikamaru, either."

He, supposed that was meant to be a compliment. And, for the first time in weeks, Iruka felt a little mischievousness this stir in his soul. Something that had been frozen under feet of hoarfrost since he had walked out of the morgue. "I'll have you know," he said primly "that your old teacher isn't without his own tricks."

"Sure, sure," Naruto said dismissively.

In reply, Iruka flashed his fingers through the necessary seals and said, "Oiroke no jutsu!"

The devious transformation took effect immediately, and when the smoke cleared, Iruka had the pleasure of seeing Naruto's eyes bug out of his head. There wasn't a hint of blood coming out of his nose, however. Iruka had copied his former student's prank jutsu, but he had done it with some level of class. His transformation wore clothing, even if the skirt was a little high. He put one hand on his slim waist and cocked his hip, tossing his longer, silky brunette ponytail out of his eyes. "What do you think?" he asked, his voice high and feminine.

"Iruka-sensei! What! How? What!" Naruto stammered.

Iruka examined his nails critically. They were still flat and short like a man's. He would have to remember that, next time he tried this. "I need a disguise when I enter the wizard world, and Yamato said your stupid, prank jutsu went beyond a normal illusion into actual transformation.” He paused to look down at himself, considering. “It takes no concentration or chakra to maintain it at all. Well done."

Had he not been knocked nearly unconscious from shock when Naruto head sprung the more obscene version of this on him years back, he may have looked further into it and passed Naruto just for that. It wasn't every twelve-year-old that could create his own jutsu.

"Sensei, you look… Like Ino, but with brown hair. Even your, uh… " He rubbed at his eyes and looked anywhere but at Iruka’s breasts, which were straining his shirt a little. “It's freaking me out."

He had, in fact, used Ino’s body type as inspiration, though he had kept his own hair and eye color and had done away with the scar that would be too memorable for infiltration purposes. Still, he had no pity for Naruto. “Imagine having worse pulled on you from your twelve-year-old student," he said tartly, but then reversed the jutsu with a burst of chakra and returned back to his normal self.

Naruto grinned, cheeky and unrepentant. “Yeah, but I got you good. Old man Hokage, too.” The smile faded and he reached to rub at his hitai-ate. Iruka’s old hitai-ate. “You’re going to find out who killed Kakashi-sensei, aren’t you? That’s the other reason for this mission. Other than the teaching. I’m right, right?”

Why had he let himself forget for a moment how observant Naruto could be when he wanted. “Yes.”

His mouth firmed and he nodded once, decisively. His blue eyes shined up at Iruka. “You’ll kick their asses, Iruka-sensei. Punch one of them for me, okay? Real hard!”

No need to fake the smile anymore. “I will,” he promised, then gave into the urge and ruffled Naruto’s hair again. “I’ll be sending weekly reports. Remember that letters go both ways.”

Naruto grinned at him under his mop of mussed hair. “I’m going to be Jounin for sure by the time you get back. Believe it!”

 _I do_ , he thought fondly. _I always have._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Diagon Alley and Iruka is introduced to Hogwarts. :D


	3. Chapter 3

Upon the end of his interview, Dumbledore had left a portkey in Tsunade’s care that would transfer Iruka to the wizarding world three days before the start of the new term.

Iruka showed up twenty minutes before the portkey was set to activate. Yamato was already there. He was dressed in civilian clothes in a western style, and for once had foregone his metal faceplate. His eyes were still unusually large and dark, but otherwise he gave off the appearance of a bland civilian.

Iruka, too, had dressed in his civilian clothes. In his small single pack, he had one spare uniform, his hitai-ate, and a few mementos from his house. (He’d given Naruto the key this morning and told him to use the home as it was his own. He expected the kitchen cabinets to be filled with ramen cups by this time tomorrow.) His storage scrolls held his explosive, light, and barrier tags, weapons, and a few choice poisons. Everything he’d need for an entire year.

Yamato glanced Iruka up and down and then nodded in approval. "It's best for you to transform before we arrive. I will act as your father while we are in the Wizard Marketplace. It is supposedly busy this time of year, but the less word of two shinobi’s arrival, the better."

Iruka nodded. "How is your English?"

"Basic,” he admitted with a grimace. “Intel supplied me with a jutsu that would help me understand simple phrases, but I'm afraid a living language is more complicated. You will have to do most of the talking, sensei."

By 'intel' Yamato really meant ANBU infiltration. Through Kakashi, Iruka knew Yamato was ANBU, and Yamato knew that Iruka knew. But it was one of those things that wasn't polite to say aloud.

So, instead of commenting, Iruka flashed his fingers through the necessary seals. "Oiroke no jutsu!"

The first thing he did after the smoke cleared was to check his fingernails: Long and shapely, just that he had hoped.

Yamato poked Iruka’s shoulder and nodded again in approval when he saw that the transformation was true and not merely an illusion. Iruka had taken the opportunity to age the body down to fourteen or so to aid with their cover story.

"As soon you arrive at Hogwarts, send this message bird," Yamato handed Iruka a storage scroll which contained a very unhappy messenger Hawk, "with a local place and time to meet. I will be your point of contact, most weeks."

He nodded and tucked the scroll within a hidden pocket of his shirt, next to several sharp shuriken. It was a relief to know he would have backup—if only once a week.

Yamato checked his watch. "Five minutes."

Turning, Iruka grabbed the portkey, which appeared to be a hairbrush, and held it up between them. "From what I understand, this will work if any part of you is simply touching the object."

"It is a strange way to cast a jutsu, isn't it?" Yamato commented as he placed two fingers on brush handle.

“ _Spell_ ,” Iruka corrected absently, using the English word. “And yes, wizards and witches generally use natural chakra, filtered through their wands. It produces no drain on them whatsoever.”

“A wand is a long piece of wood?” Yamato tilted his head, thinking. “I would like to examine one.”

Iruka’s lips ticked up at the wood-user. “That should be possible. My illusion is young enough to purchase a wand without arousing suspicion.”

“Do you think it’s possible for shinobi to use a wand for jut—for _spells_?” Yamato asked, head tilted. It was obvious he was considering the advantages.

“I’m not sure. My grandmother’s wand was off-limits. She was no kunoichi, but she had a mean throw.” Another thing he’d forgotten about her. “Her wand was buried with her, in their custom.”

How long until he started forgetting the little things about Kakashi? The way he purposefully styled his hair to stand up on end, his anti-sweet-tooth, the hilarious way he’d blushed that time Iruka caught him reading a biography hidden in an Icha-Icha cover?

Yamato was sensitive enough to pick up on Iruka’s lowered mood, and didn’t comment further. They counted down in silence. Then, Iruka felt a sudden jerk behind his navel and he was whisked away from the only home he’d ever known.

 

* * *

 

The portkey took them to an apartment inside Diagon Alley, which was a main Wizarding Marketplace, separated entirely from the civilian population of London.

 _Muggle_ , Iruka reminded himself. _Not civilian. These Wizards and Witches do not protect their non-magical population—they hide from them._

Stepping out into the street, Iruka was thrust in the middle of chaos. Even Konoha on its largest festival day didn't compare. Magical items zipped here and there, sometimes chased by their owners (was that a book with legs?), owls hooted from every lamppost, witches with over-sized bags pushed rudely past while teenagers threw magical stink bombs at each other, laughing and running. Vendors on every street corner called out news and wares.

Still, in his orioke form, Iruka turned to regard Yamato. The man blinked his over-large eyes and visibly forced his hands down from hidden pockets. Any jounin with hair-trigger reflexes would have a hard time here.

Kakashi, he knew, would have looked bored and stoic on the outside, but—

Iruka cut that thought off sharply. Instead, he grabbed Yamato's arm—his dominant throwing arm, just in case—and offered up a fake, daughterly smile. "Wizard clothes first. Wand second."

“Yes,” Yamato agreed, thickly in English. A reminder to stay in that language.

Yamato was close enough in size to Iruka's normal frame that any wizarding robes off the rack that fit him would work. The shopkeeper, Madam Malkin, was busy tailoring for a line of school children. With an assistant’s help, they were able to get in and out quickly, with the packages sent onto to Hogwarts.

Two more people added to the crowd were no notice. But the other reason Iruka had gone under disguise was information gathering, and that proved useful when it came to the newspaper stand.

"Mad slasher strikes again!" a piercing disembodied voice from a flier called, the images of a knife and a wand twirling together as if on a TV screen. "Read all about it in today's Daily Prophet!"

Iruka quickly signed ‘ _Stay here_ ’ to Yamato, and crossed the street to buy a newspaper.

The shopkeeper eyed him up and down. "You may wanna skip this one, Missy. Pictures are a bit gruesome."

"I didn't know there was a murderer about," Iruka said, making his doeish eyes widen in alarm. "I've been visiting overseas with my father. Is it dangerous?"

The shopkeeper barked a laugh. "Only if you're on the wrong side of the Ministry, or an auror. Some say," he leaned in closer, "it's a sign You-Know-Who's come again, though don’t let anyone in the Ministry catch you saying so."

"You-Know-Who?"

But he the man nodded, clearly hearing his words as an affirmation and not a question. “Personally, I think it’s Sirius Black, stirring up trouble. Murdering’s just his type of fun, innit?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Iruka agreed, wondering who Sirius Black was, and if they were related by blood or marriage.

Iruka bought a newspaper anyway.

"What does it say?" Yamato asked as Iruka returned.

Yamato then grimaced as a wizard jostled between them with a merry, "Cheers!" as he went on his way. 

The Jounin was, Iruka realized, flipping a piece of worry-wood in between his fingers. Not a good sign.

Grabbing his elbow, Iruka pulled him to a bench that sat out of the way in forgotten shadow. Yamato gave an audible sigh as he sat, and if Iruka didn’t look too hard he could pretend he didn’t see how his legs melded a little with the wooden bench. Diagon Alley was twinging every one of the jounin’s battle reflexes.

Iruka quickly opened the paper and scanned the page. He was disappointed: The moving pictures were not gruesome at all—just a row of white sheeted bodies, and medi-witches shaking their heads over them.

"The killer got into a locked and warded home. Killed a witch from the department of mysteries. Arterial cuts. No magical signatures found, but they say there was no way a muggle could breach the wards."

"Could a shinobi?"

Iruka looked up quickly. "Possibly. Why?"

"We know wizards were traveling in Fire Country. They may have picked up missing nin along the way."

The ones who had killed Kakashi. The paper crinkled in Iruka's fist. He caught himself and smoothed it out, then nodded to a dark, quiet looking shop across the street with a sign that said: Ollivander's Wand Shop.

“Then, I think it’s wise to test how alike Shinobi and Wizards are.”

 

* * *

 

 

A half hour later, Iruka found himself the owner of an eleven-inch cedar wand with a dragon heart-string core. It felt thin and delicate in his hands—too easy to break during battle. Yamato commented the same, once they were out of the shop and back to the bench where they could speak in peace.

“You could get perhaps, one surprise justu out of it, but anyone with sense would close in and try to snap the wand in half.”

As an experiment, Iruka pointed the tip of his wand at a piece of paper trash. “Katon.”

A thin stream of fire issued out of the wand and set the paper ablaze. Quickly, Iruka stomped it out with his shoe.

“I definitely felt a pull from my chakra,” he said. “More than I like for that jutsu, in fact. I can get much more efficiency with hand-seals.”

“That could also be the result of practice,” Yamato said. “Perhaps the wand could be useful if your fingers were broken, or you were prevented from making seals.”

“Then how would I hold the wand?” Iruka shook his head. “Wizards and witches use natural chakra and call it magic, but it seems my body is simply used to channeling through my chakra coils.”

Yamato nodded and held out his hand. “May I see?”

Iruka felt a strange reluctance to hand the wand over—as if it were already a part of him. He pushed the reluctance aside and watched with interest as the wood-user closed his eyes and ran the tips of his fingers over the length. After a moment, he handed it back. “Odd. There’s nothing unusual about the wood at all, except for the dead bit of flesh inside. Perhaps that is where magical properties are contained ”

Stowing the wand up his sleeve, Iruka looked around the still bustling marketplace. “We should split up and gather more information.”

Yamato nodded. “Flare your chakra if you run into trouble. We will meet back at this bench in an hour.”

 

* * *

 

The dark, dank alleyway caught Iruka's attention right away. It seemed to be a place of secrets and dark dealings. The type where criminals liked to lurk.

Had he not been wearing the illusion of a young girl, he wouldn't have hesitated. People who hesitated were prey. Then again, were he the girl he looked like he would have felt mischievous and perhaps a little excited about going into a forbidden place. Iruka kept that in mind and altered his body language as he strode down the alleyway, the new cedar wand out and ready… As if that were the most dangerous thing about him.

The alleyway was quite narrow in places, and he brushed by a few people in rags, ignoring the searching fingers in his pockets as if he didn't notice them. There was nothing in his outer pockets that he would be bothered to lose—just small knuts of wizard money.

Fingers hard and sure, closed around his wrist, stopping Iruka cold.

Iruka's first instinct was to throw his attacker over his shoulder and follow-up with a sharp heel-kick to make sure they stayed down. But a young untrained witch wouldn't use such a move. He startled, checked himself, and glared up at the person.

"Don't touch me!"

The man who grabbed him was much taller than Iruka’s. His face and features were hidden deeply within robes. He didn't answer, but his companion, also hooded, laughed darkly.

“Found something you like, Ghost?"

Ghost didn't reply. His fingers tightened over Iruka's wrist, hard enough to bruise. There was not a flicker chakra in the grip, though, and no magical spell that Iruka could otherwise feel.

He could break the hold in a second, or simply stab the man with a kunai he had up his sleeve.

But no, that would break his illusion. Iruka twisted his wrist—not really to escape, but to test the reaction. But the man followed his movements and adjusted his hold easily. He was trained. Iruka could feel his attention drill into him with startlingly intensity even though he could not see the man's eyes.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing down here in Knockturn Alley, miss?” the second man jeered while the one holding Iruka kept silent. “What's your name?”

"Delphina Black,” he said, using his grandmother’s name.

“Pureblood, eh? At least Ghost has taste.”

This had gone on long enough. "Release me, or I will make you," Iruka growled. For the hooded men’s sake, they had better not mistake it for him being cute or coy.

"What is going on here?" another voice demanded from down the alleyway. Yamato. Iruka felt the jounin’s chakra flare even before he had finished the words.

Iruka didn't flare his own in reply, which would indicate he needed assistance. Honestly, he had it handled. But Yamato was playing a role, too. And that role was of Iruka’s father.

Jogging up, Yamato looked from Iruka to the two hooded men and scowled. His hands did not drift to where Iruka knew he kept his weapons, but they would be there in a flash if he needed it.

Abruptly, the second hooded man made a gesture to the first. Ghost released Iruka's wrist and stepped back, silent and obedient.

"Father, these men accosted me!" Iruka snapped rushing to his side and, pretending to thoroughly have his feathers ruffled.

"We were simply making sure young Miss Black here wasn't lost. She ought not to go down Knockturn Alley alone," the talker said. Then he snapped, "Come, Ghost," as if the other hooded man were his dog.

The two swept down the alleyway and passed them, turning around the corner, and was quickly gone.

"Perverts," Iruka muttered under his breath and shook back the Kunai that had slipped down his sleeve to his wrist.

“Hmm,” Yamato said wryly. “Perhaps you should have jutsu’ed into a younger boy form."

Iruka shot him a disgusted look. "Have you seen Naruto’s reverse harem jutsu?"

Apparently, Yamato had because he winced, then inclined his head back to the mouth of the alley way and the chaos beyond. “Let’s leave. We’re drawing attention.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night, they had dinner at a quaint pub named the Leaky Cauldron. The food was heavier than Iruka was used to, and it had been a long time since his grandmother's strict lessons on how to use a fork. (A knife, of course, was a simple matter for any shinobi worth his salt.)

Yamato ordered ale, in the local style, and three glasses. The third sat at the table, untouched. A memento for the man who would never join them.

And in a quiet shadowed table of the Wizard’s Pub, their quiet conversation in Japanese was easily overlooked by English speakers: Yamato told Iruka stories of some of the amusing anecdotes from missions he and Kakashi shared. Not enough details to reveal classified information, of course, but the kind of dirt only lifelong friends had on one another.

It hurt to talk and to laugh and remember, but the pain was like lancing a festering wound. It was good to talk about Kakashi with someone who also dearly missed him.

"You still wear the wedding ring," Yamato commented.

Actually, Iruka been spinning it with his thumbnail again. He made himself stop. "If I took it off, his chakra in it would fade," he admitted. “It dissipates once it leaves a living aura.” Which was why Kakashi’s ring with Iruka’s chakra was as dead as the man who wore it.

Yamato nodded and took a pull of ale. "Careful, Sensei. Wearing someone else’s chakra… that's how you collect ghosts."

"I don't believe in ghosts," he said. Not after his parents never visited him. After the Kyuubi there would have been enough ghosts to haunt the village, but Iruka heard of no one who’d come back to visit their loved ones. If there was an afterlife—Kakashi said there was, he'd seen it after Pein's attack—people didn't return from it.

"Not those sort of ghosts," Yamato said obliquely.

Something tingled in the back of Iruka's mind. He eyed the ale with a little more speculation, wondering if it was stronger than it tasted.

On cue, the bartender called out last call. Iruka shoved his remaining mug to Yamato. He didn’t need the hangover tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

_It was raining outside, in Iruka's dream. Kakashi sat by the bay window in the hotel room over the pub, the Daily Prophet unfurled out in front of him. He crinkled his eye at the moving pictures. "Messy."_

_"Hardly," Iruka said as he continued to make tea for them both. "These people would never print visible blood. It would upset them too much."_

_"I meant the killings, Sensei. Either someone very untrained... or someone who wanted to get caught."_

_"Or who wanted to send a message." Teacups in hand, Iruka sat next to him. Kakashi didn't look at him--couldn't. His neck was stiff from_ rigormortis _._

_"Can you tell me who killed you? A description?" Iruka asked._

_"Maa," he sighed and set down the newspaper to take up the tea. "This is only a dream, Iruka. I can't tell you what you don't already know."_

_Irritated at the reminder, Iruka set down the teacup with a sharp click on the table. "Am I going crazy? Dreaming of you like this, every night?"_

_Kakashi cast him a droll look. "Wasn't it you who told me more than once that every jounin is a little crazy?"_

_"I'm not a jounin, and stop answering my questions with questions."_

_Kakashi smiled--a true smile that curved his mouth as well as his eyes. "Do chuunin take S-rank missions?"_

Iruka woke seconds before the tiny bell on his alarm tinkled. He sat up and rubbed at his face, relieved to find his cheeks dry. It had not been a sad dream, but his heart ached anew every time he—

… Something was wrong.

Stilling, Iruka cast about past his wards he’d put up that night. He could feel the faint flicker of Yamato in the next room over. No doubt the Jounin was awake. There was no other presence with him in his room, or just outside his door.

It took him nearly a solid minute to realize that the difference was within.

Iruka’s chakra reserves were lower than it should have been. Not by much. Not as if, for example, he’d been casting jutsu in his sleep. But there was a slight difference.

 _The wards_ , he thought, though it didn’t fit. If there had been a force attacking the barriers he’d put up, he would have woken immediately. A quick check to the seals showed no hint of tamper.

Yamato knocked on his door. No words, but he used the Konoha pattern asking if all was well.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Iruka called back, and pushed the issue aside for later. The chakra drain was minimal, and he was to arrive at Hogwarts today. He needed all his wits.

Perhaps it was only nerves.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a floo-powder point to Hogwarts from a public fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. Pack in hand, Iruka watched several witches and wizards take a handful of powder and travel to their destinations before he did the same.

Stepping in and throwing the powder down, he called out “Dumbledore's office. Hogwarts!” and was whisked away.

That was another question answered: Shinobi could use Wizard transportation as well as wands. He suspected there was hardly any difference at all, other than the type of magical training.

He arrived in Dumbledore's office slightly dizzy, but with no effect to his chakra at all, for all that he had just traveled halfway across the country. This was going into his first report back to Tsunade.

"Ah, Iruka. Welcome—right on time, I see." Dumbledore sat at his desk, across from an older severe witch. He rose and Iruka caught himself before he bowed, extending a hand to shake, instead. "How were your travels?" Dumbledore asked.

"Swift and easy," Iruka said honestly.

"This is Minerva McGonagall, who teaches Transfiguration. Minerva, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Iruka Umino. I asked her here to show you to your office and to help with your luggage, but..." He looked ruefully at Iruka single pack. "I see you carry light."

"I have brought all I need," Iruka assured him.

McGonagall looked severe. "Dumbledore says you're a teacher, of sorts. If that is the case, that will be a welcome change from our last few Defence Professors."

Iruka recognized a challenge when he saw one, and forced an easy smile. "I've taught all levels in Konoha Academy, from the six to twelve-year-olds. Lately, I've specialized with the graduating students."

Her eyebrows rose. "Six-years-old? That's rather young to start—well." She drew herself up, flustered, looking like she was holding back from saying something cutting by the skin of her teeth.

 _She doesn’t approve of Shinobi_ , Iruka thought, and automatically loosened his shoulders and altered his body language so he wasn’t mirroring her tense stance. Less competent ninja, more enthusiastic foreigner on his first mission from home. He made sure to over-share a little, too.

"Most Shonobi—those from clans, which are like your pure-blood families—start Pre-Academy at four. I interned there while earning teaching credentials." He shook his head, ruefully. "I hope dealing with toddler tantrums have prepared me for teenagers."

"Quite." She glanced at Dumbledore, who looked as if he were smiling behind his beard. "Well, if you follow me this way. The students should be arriving tomorrow evening."

 

* * *

 

 

Feeling full and pleasantly drowsy from the feast, Harry listened as Dumbledore gave his usual welcome back speech.

“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged looks. Dumbledore had not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching. Where in the world was Hagrid?

Dumbledore continued. “I’m am also delighted to introduce Professor Umino, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, who comes to us from The Village Hidden In The Leaves. I’m sure you will all strive to make him welcome.”

Hermione dropped her fork. She wasn’t the only one. Low, confused murmurs swept all four house tables.

Umino, who sat primly at the end of the staff table, inclined his head at the students. He was a tanned-skin Asian man with a ponytail and rather long scar which crossed the bridge of his nose and both cheeks on either side.

Ignoring the murmurs, Dumbledore went on about quidditch tryouts. Harry turned to Ron to comment about the odd name of the place, but saw his friend still staring at the new professor, his jaw dropped open.

“They didn’t…” Hermione breathed. “Dumbledore wouldn’t…”

“What?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore’s gone and hired a shinobi,” Ron said, sounding dumbstruck.

“A… what?” Harry asked.

“A ninja.” Hermione looked torn between disapproval and excitement. “They’re supposed to be very militaristic, and secretive. They’ve made their entire continent unplottable.”

“My Dad went one of hidden villages on a Ministry goodwill trip when I was a kid,” Ron said. “Think he called it a shoo-nan test. He said it was an absolute death match, kids young as first years offing each other right and left. He had nightmares about it for months. Why would Dumbledore hire someone like that?”

Harry glanced again at Umino, who was poking rather fussily at a sheppard’s pie with a fork.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Voldermort’s come back, and Dumbledore wants us to know how to fight.”

Hermione looked doubtful. “Shinobi don’t practice magic in the same way as normal witches and wizards—they’re not supposed to use wands at all.”

“No wands?” Harry asked. “How do they cast spells?”

“Dad said it’s a sort of blood magic,” Ron said and shook his head. “I hope not. Imagine having to stab yourself before every test?”

There was a great clattering and banging all around them; Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the school, because everyone was standing up ready to leave the Hall. Hermione jumped up, looking flustered.

“Ron, we're supposed to show the first-years where to go!”

“Be there in a moment.” Ron turned to Harry and raised his eyebrows. “Think it’ll be Moody all over again?”

Harry glanced again at Umino. He looked rather young to be a professor, and gave off a self-possessed, bookish air. Aside from the scar, he didn’t strike Harry as the type who’d regularly engaged in death matches.

Then again, no one had counted on Mad Eye really being a Death Eater in disguise, either.

“Suppose we’ll find out,” Harry said.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short, so I decided to post a day early. :) 
> 
> Also: This is one of the rewritten chapters from the old one-shot collection, just in case it seems familiar. 
> 
> Finally: I adore book!Ron as a character, but no doubt he would lol hard at Draco being put in a tough spot.

* * *

 

Harry didn't have to wait long to see what the new Defense Against The Dark Arts class would be like. Gryffindor House had class with the Slytherins Monday afternoon, with an additional double-period on Friday.

Rumors of shinobi deeds had been going around the Gryffindor common room last night after the feast and all morning. Most of them were quite horrific: Shinobi used their children for front lines in their wars, could hypnotize a person into killing themselves just by eye-contact, and made blood pacts to summon dark magical creatures.

The class was quiet as it entered the room. Even if Harry wasn’t sure if he should believe half the things he heard, Professor Umino was, as yet, an unknown quantity.

"Good afternoon," Umino greeted. He wore plain, unremarkable wizard robes, except his shoes seemed to be open toed utilitarian sandals. He consulted a parchment attached to a clipboard, but instead of calling roll he merely said, "You are the Slytherin and Gryffindor houses, correct?"

Glances were exchanged between one another. It was obvious—the kids with red badges were on one side, the green on the other. The line was sharply divided with empty seats between them.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said.

"Excellent.” Umino clapped his hands together, giving off the air of energy and purpose. “We will be conducting today's lesson outside—"

"In the rain?" Draco demanded.

Umino didn't miss a beat. "Yes, the ground should be well softened up by now. Please leave your bags, and take your wands and any other tools you normally use for defense."

Which was how, a few minutes later, the class found itself jogging through squelchy mud and wet grass past the greenhouses and down to an open stretch by the lake.

Harry was luckier than most. Quidditch kept him fit even if he'd spent most of the summer inside Grimmauld Place. Hermione was lagging behind and panting for breath by the time Umino stopped them at the edge of the lake.

The Shinobi didn't look vaguely out of breath. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels. “All here?” He looked around the winded class then nodded once. “Good. Now, let me properly introduce myself: my name is Iruka Umino. Unlike your other instructors in this school, I am not a professor. I am your sensei, so that is how you will refer to me from now on.”

"What's the difference?" Draco thrust out his pointed chin belligerently.

Umino smiled tightly. "Your name?"

"Draco Malfoy."

"It may have escaped your attention, Draco Malfoy, but I am not a wizard,” Umino said so blandly that a few sniggers rose up from the Gryffindor students. “We are not in a warm classroom, and I am not here to show you how to throw sparks with your wand. I am here to show you how to face an enemy and survive, if you can. Or make them badly regret meeting you, if you can’t.”

The blunt way Umino spoke about death sent a shiver up Harry’s spine. For a brief moment it felt as if he stood again in the graveyard, a high voice calling ‘Kill the spare!’.

Draco looked less impressed. He sneered. "What? Without wands? That’s ridiculous."

"Is it? Then prove me wrong, Draco Malfoy." Umino opened his arms, inviting. "Hit me with one of your spells. If you can."

Draco didn't waste a second. He had his wand out almost before Umino had finished and yelled, " _Flipendo_!"

The knock-back jinx hit Umino dead center in the chest, throwing him back onto the sudden grass. The moment his body hit ground, though, there was a puff of smoke, a slight pop, and he was gone. A log lay in his place.

And suddenly, a presence stood by Malfoy. Some of the girls shrieked in surprise, but Umino had already snatched Draco's wand away with his left hand. His right hand pressed the sharp tip of a strange triangular knife to Draco’s throat.

"You missed," Umino said.

Malfoy made a choked, half-gasping sound. His skin went from pale to deathly white in fear. "Let go of me!"

"No, I don't think so." Umino stowed Draco’s wand in his own pocket.

Crabbe and Goyle lurched forward as if to help but Umino tisked at them, pulling Draco’s head back to expose his neck and the blade pressed to his thundering pulse. They backed away.

Draco snarled, “Do you know who my father is? What he’ll do to you when he learns about this?”

“You act as if you will still be alive to find out.” Looking around at them all, Umino raised his voice. "I now have your comrades’ life in my hands. One slip," he pressed the edge of the blade closer and a thin line of blood actually traveled down Malfoy's neck, "And he dies.”

“What… what do you want?” Pansy asked.

“You’re asking me? Your enemy?” Umino snapped. He suddenly didn’t look bookish. He looked dangerous. Harry could have felt sorry for Draco if he wasn’t… Draco.

"Blimey,” Ron muttered aside to Harry. “This is better than when Mad-Eye turned him into a ferret."

Ron had kept his voice low, but Umino's attention snapped to him. "Name?"

Ron took a surprised step back. “Ron Weasley?"

"Do you think this is amusing, Ron Weasley?"

"Uh." The answer was plainly yes, but Ron wasn't stupid. "No, Professor."

"I am not your professor," Umino reminded him. Then he looked to the rest of the class. "Well? Are you all just going to stand there? You outnumber me twenty-five to two, and I am threatening one of your comrades. What is your next move?"

It took a beat for that to sink in. "Twenty-five to... two, sir?" Hermione asked tentatively.

Suddenly, Harry staggered as a force pushed him away from Ron. There was a curious displacement of air, as if something had moved too fast to be tracked by the eye. When it cleared, Umino had knocked Ron down, face first into the mud, one knee in the center of his back, and the point of his knife against the top of his spine.

"Ron!" Hermione yelled.

"Do you still think it's funny, Mr. Weasley? When the blade is at your back?" the Umino holding Draco asked--because there were _two_ of them. Twins, just as identical as Fred and George.

“N-No, sir!” Ron said, or tried to say. His face was smashed in mud.

Harry's mind was awhirl. This wasn't possible. Where had the other man come from?

Umino paused a beat, as if he was waiting for something. The entire class was frozen in shock. "Since no one has any ideas, I have a suggestion. Throw your wands in a pile over there. Do it!" he snapped loudly as people looked at one another. “Or both boys die right here!”

Most hastened to toss their wands to the side. Harry hesitated, his heart pounding. Umino caught his gaze. "Do you have a bright idea?"

Harry swallowed, stepped forward and held up his wand threateningly. "Let them go."

"Harry no!" Hermione wailed. "You can’t attack him! He's a professor."

"I am," Umino said, "not your professor. I am your _sensei_."

Harry got it. Or, at least he hoped he did. Turning, he yelled, " _Expelliarmus_ ," at the Umino holding Draco.

The knife went flying away, and the line of blood on Draco’s neck disappeared into a puff of smoke as if it had been an illusion. More shocking, Umino’s entire body went transparent, suddenly shifting into a man-shaped bubble of water, which then melted away into the grass.

"Well done," Umino said in satisfaction, from behind them all.

Lavender Brown screamed, pointing. "There's another one!"

But this Umino held a clipboard... the same one he'd been holding inn his classroom. Harry hadn't noticed it had gone, before.

Tucking the clipboard under one arm, Umino strode into the middle of the group and clapped his hands sharply, once. “Students, you may stand down. The demonstration is over."

The Umino holding Ron down lifted his knife away before he, too, melted away to water. Ron stood with a grimace. There was no cut or scrape on him, but his front was covered with mud.

Umino—the real one—looked at Harry. "Name?"

Either he was pretending, or he was the first who hadn’t identified him on sight. "Harry Potter," he said, hoping he wasn’t about to get attacked, too. But Umino merely nodded and marked something on his clipboard.

"What was that?" Seamus demanded, breaking from his shock. "How many of there are you?"

"As many as there needs to be," Umino said obliquely. "Now, Mr. Potter, you used a disarming spell, yes?"

"Yeah," he said, feeling faint.

"Excellent choice. Why did you choose to disarm the enemy holding Mr. Malfoy instead of your friend?"

Harry felt himself flush. He knew why, and it seemed only natural at the time, but now the danger had passed, the last thing he wanted to do was admit it.

"Come, come," Umino said. "This is important."

"Because... I knew you… erm… I mean, the enemy wasn’t actually going to kill anyone, but..." He stopped. He couldn’t say it.

"If your spell went wrong, and if the kunai slipped, you'd rather Draco's blood be on your hands than your friend," Umino said, guessing correctly.

Everyone stared at Harry like he were a monster. Draco’s glare could have cut glass.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Umino said. "For cunning."

Harry felt very conflicted.

Umino then went around the class, asking names and why each had reacted the way they did, thrown their wands, held onto it. And why they hadn’t run for help. He marked each reply on his clipboard and gave an additional five points each to Crabbe and Goyle for their instinct to come to Draco’s aid, even if they didn’t follow through.

"Now," Umino said to the class at large, "What did Mr. Malfoy do correctly?"

There was dead silence. Finally, Pansy Parkinson piped up with an apologetic look to Draco, "He... uh. Once he was your hostage, he followed your direction. He didn’t do anything stupid, like try to turn and punch you."

"Yes, what else?"

"Well… He smart-mouthed," she said.

There were a couple nervous titers, but Umino looked pleased.

"Correct. He attempted to distract and intimidate his captor. Had his enemy been unsure, or in some debt to his family, he may have thought twice about his actions. Mr. Malfoy did more to save himself than any of you did, including Mr. Potter.” He nodded to Malfoy. “Twenty points to Slytherin, for the bravery to act.”

Malfoy looked torn between anger and pride, a dull pink flush spread across his pale cheeks.  
  
Umino turned on his heel and regarded Ron with open displeasure. Ron tensed, still terribly muddy, but stood his ground.

Umino’s voice was quiet, but everyone could hear every word. “A wise Shinobi once said, ‘Those who disobey the rules are trash, but those who abandon their comrades are even worse trash.’ Remember that, next time you are faced with the enemy.”

Ron nodded, looking like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop; the house points that would be deducted, or maybe to be knocked over again.

Instead, Umino turned from him to address the class.

"Now, what is a Wizard without his wand?"

Crabbe made a face. "A Muggle?"

"No!" Umino snapped. He reached in his pocket and held up Draco's captured wand. "I have a wand now. Does this make me a wizard? Of course not." He lightly tossed it back to Draco. "A wizard without his wand is _still_ a wizard. The same person on the inside. If I teach you anything this year it will be your greatest weapon is not that stick in your hands. It is what is up here." He tapped the side of his head. “And here.” He pressed a fist to his heart. “Defending yourself and those most precious to you goes beyond mere magic, it is _will_. It is the fire that burns within to survive. Do you understand?"

“Yes, Sensei Umino,” a few people muttered.

“What was that?” Umino barked in a hard drill sergeant’s voice.

The response was instant, and louder, “Yes, Sensei Umino!”

A brisk nod. "Your homework tonight," Umino said, "is to think of today’s lesson and write how you would react in this scenario: You are walking alone down a London alleyway when you are approached by an armed bandit. What do you do? I want no jokes, such that you will blow up the alleyway. Realistic answers, please, with a mind toward maintaining your ministry’s Statute of Secrecy."

Hermione held up her hand. "Excuse me, Sensei, how long do you want the essay?"

"As long as it needs to be." Another brisk nod. "Now, if you run you may retrieve your bags in time for the next bell. You are dismissed."

 


	5. Chapter 5

"I think Dad was right," Ron said shakily, still covered with mud. He and Harry had slowed down their run to a brisk walk, as Hermione could only make it halfway up the slope back to the castle before a cramp had her clutching her side. "Shinobi are barking mad."

"You were being a prat, Ron," Hermione panted. "What would Professor Snape or Moody do if you talked out in the middle of class?"

"Mad-Eye wasn't really himself, was he?" Ron shot back. "Besides, Umino didn't care I joked. He wanted Harry to attack him. And what was that about Harry putting Malfoy above me?" He shook his head again. "Mad."

Harry exchanged a quick look with Hermione. Umino had been right on about what Harry had been thinking--or not thinking, really. It had been instinct. In that second he'd weighed Ron and Malfoy's life--and of course Ron came up ahead.

It bothered him that he'd thought this way, that he could weigh someone’s life against another’s, even if that other person was Malfoy. It bothered him more that Umino had seen it and approved.

“What spell was that?” Harry asked, “I’ve never seen anyone make triplets out of themselves.”

“Hope Fred and George don’t pick that trick up,” Ron muttered.

“I told you already, Shinobi don’t use magic in the same way wizards do.” Hermione looked thoughtful. “I’ve never come across an exact reference of their capabilities in the library, but I bet it’s fascinating… imagine an entire society able to do wandless magic.” Then she looked at her watch and groaned. "We're going to be late for the bell!" She labored into a slow jog.

"Oi," Ron complained. "At least you got clean robes."

"Honestly." Turning, she pointed her wand and hissed, "Scourgify!"

With a sucking sound that blew back Ron's hair, his robes were scoured mostly clean. There were a few stains that the house elves would probably need to wash out, but at least he was no longer a walking mudpie.

Ron breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks." Then he looked at Harry and added lower, "Next time someone has me at knifepoint, I don't care what the risk is. Free me first."

A little of the weight left Harry's chest. He grinned at his best friend. "Yeah."

"Saving Draco bloody Malfoy." Ron shook his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Understandably, most of the class was jumpy when it came time for double Defense Against The Dark Arts on Friday afternoon.  
  
"Please place your completed homework on the desk," Umino instructed. “We will have class outside today. Leave your bags behind, but take your wands and other defensive tools." He blinked as Hermione set down a small sheaf of papers on his desk. Her essay, as usual, had been… comprehensive.

As before, Umino led the class on a jog down to the lake. The storm earlier in the week had cleared, although the grass was still wet and dewy.

Harry found himself glancing over his shoulder in case of another attack. He wasn't the only one. However, they were in for another surprise.

Umino had staged sets of circular target boards with painted bullseyes at the lake’s edge, all placed at varying distances. It looked like they were about to do target practice. Harry hoped no one would actually serve as a target.

Once the class came to a stop (most, like Hermione, heaving for air) Umino turned and faced them, clipboard in hand.

"Good morning, class!" he said brightly.

"Good morning, Sensei Umino," came the slightly grudging reply.

Umino grinned in a way that showed teeth. "Today, I will be assessing you for accuracy. After all, it pointless to cast a spell at an enemy and not hit them!" He reached into a nearby bucket and withdrew several squishy balls covered in purple paint.

"The goal," he said as he set his feet carefully and drew one arm back. "Is _accuracy_." He tossed the ball at the nearest target and hit easily dead center. "Be aware of the direction and speed of the wind coming off the lake—it can affect your aim of spells as well as balls." Another easy throw and the next furthest target was hit dead center. "Move slow," he said. “We are here to build good habits from the start. One deep breath as you aim, and exhale as you release the ball." The next furthest was struck, bullseye. "And please remember not to worry if you cannot hit them all today. Just try your best."

With that, Umino leaned back and let the last ball fly. It arched high in the air and came down with a satisfying splat in the direct center of the very furthest target: Nearly a Quidditch pitch length away.

Harry would hate to be up against an entire Quidditch team of Shinobi.

Umino turned to his class. "Please take a bucket of ammunition. Work hitting the closest target first. Progress only when you have struck the middle circle three times in a row."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione lined up near each other. Hermione could only hit the closest target consistently. Ron hit the first and second, but could only hit the edges of the third. Harry hit three in the center, but his ball fell short well before it reached the fourth.

He noticed from the corner of his eye that Draco Malfoy had struck the first three with more precision, but was having an equally hard time even reaching the forth.

Umino — only one of him today — walked around the class, noting everyone’s progress on his clipboard. If he had a hat and a whistle, he would have looked like Harry's old Muggle physical education teacher.

"You are holding yourself too stiffly," Umino said as he came up to Hermione. “Loosen your shoulders and remember to breathe out — yes. You see that toss was much closer to center.” He nodded and marked something on his clipboard. "You must work to strengthen your throwing arm."

Hermione bit her lip. "Excuse me for asking, but why are we practicing _physically_ throwing? Witches and wizards generally cast spells, sir.“

Umino seemed ready for this question. "Because, Ms. Granger, it is not your arm you’re truly training. It is your mind." Then Umino glanced at Ron and said, “Slower, Mr. Weasley. This is not a race. Remember, you are training for accuracy."

Then he was at Harry's side, nodding with approval at the paint splats on his targets. "Take out your wand, Mr. Potter. See if you can hit the furthest target with sparks only."

Harry did and the class paused as bright sparks crossed the field instead of paint covered balls. To Harry's surprise, the sparks lost energy and dissipated about where his ball had fallen short.

"Ah,” Umino said. "Then it is the same. Shinobi generally can cast jutsu the length they are able to throw… Which is why we all must practice!” he added, louder to the eavesdropping class. He seemed rather excited about it, like there was nothing better than standing in a soggy field and throwing at targets all day. "Keep working, Mr. Potter. And remember to strive for accuracy — Oh, very well done."

This last part was not aimed at Harry, but at Millicent Bulstrode, a heavyset Slytherin girl with the pushed in face of a Persian cat. She had hit all four targets directly in the bullseye. She flushed bright red in pride.

"That's not a surprise," Seamus muttered as Umino went to talk to Millicent. "She has shoulders like a troll."

Again, even though Seamus had muttered it under his breath, barely loud enough for Harry, who was close, to catch, Umino seemed to have supernatural hearing.

"Finnigan," Umino snapped. "One lap around the castle perimeter. Go."

Seamus’s his jaw dropped, but Umino had already turned his back to him. Grudgingly, Seamus started off.

Harry exchanged glances with Ron. He was still feeling sore about Finnigan not believing him in the dorms the first night, but the castle was huge. Seamus would be lucky to be back by the time class was over.

Umino drilled them through the afternoon, and before long, Harry's throwing arm was sore. He wasn't the only one. Many people were grimacing and rubbing their shoulders between tosses. Accuracy dropped, despite their teacher’s encouragement.

Finally, with ten minutes to go until the bell, Umino called for a halt. Seamus wasn't back yet. Umino didn't seem to care.

"Gather around," Umino said. “Over this weekend I will tally you up according to your performance over this week and your grades from your previous Defense instructors. Starting Monday, you will be assigned to teams of three and graded as one unit."

Shocked mutters went around the class. Hermione paled, but Blaise Zabini was first to raise his hand. “But what if we’re assigned to someone who…” he visibly substituted the word he was going to use with another. “Uh… Is not good?”

"Then you will help them become better!” Umino said enthusiastically. "Your grade will depend on it. Also, some of you may be asked to transfer to a different time slot. I will come to you privately, if that is the case." He looked over them all. "Your homework this weekend will be to strengthen your throwing arms. Yes, Mr. Crabbe, I see the look on your face, and I am giving you permission to throw things indoors. As much as you can, and as accurately as possible! Do not injure yourselves or others. Dismissed!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was child's play to leave Hogwarts that Saturday night.

Iruka had been practicing his shadow clone technique every evening. That technique took more chakra than his favorite water clones, and he could only make one as of yet, but he was improving.

He set the clone to grade homework, then pushed open the large deep set bay window to his office and simply walked down the outside wall to the ground level.

No one stopped him. Some of the Wizard professors were patrolling the halls, but Iruka had checked the schedule -- no one bothered to patrol outside.

The Forbidden Forest was no Forest of Death, though the trees were old, the trunks and branches thick and strong enough to support him.

He spotted a herd of centaurs. But, like Wizards, they didn't seem inclined to watch the canopy. Iruka passed through the trees unnoticed. He was, after all, Leaf Shinobi.

His contact was waiting for him in an empty glade precisely at the coordinates Iruka had messaged.

Yamato wore his full ANBU gear tonight. He must have come from an important mission to meet with him.

Iruka bowed low in greeting and handed over his intelligence reports for the week.

The cat mask covered Yamato's face, but his body language was amused. "All this already? You're putting other operatives to shame, Sensei."

Iruka, who had spent years filing such reports, smiled tightly. "I'm beginning to think Wizard society has no concept of secrecy. Their library is open, and as a teacher, I have full access to all restricted materials." He added wryly, "And I'm pretty sure if T&I cared to pay the subscription fee, they could have the Daily Prophet delivered via owl."

"That may be useful to keep up with the Wizarding world." Yamato paused and inclined his head. "How are you adjusting?"

A week's worth of exasperation bubbled up from where Iruka had carefully kept it stuffed down.

"How am I adjusting? These Wizards and Witches are sending their own children out into the world almost completely defenseless. Some are seventeen years old and can't even throw a punch! They have no instincts, or if they did they've been ground down to nothing. That's not all: They separate the students into houses, then set them against one another — not to fight, because they don't allow that, but to snipe and socially isolate one another. The only ones who know any useful spells seem to be self-taught! With a war brewing under their noses. Of all the stupid, idiotic—" His voice was getting loud. Iruka pulled himself in by force.

If anything, Yamato's body language became even more amused as Iruka ranted. He was probably grinning under his mask. "It's good to see you care again."

That let the air out of Iruka’s balloon. He shrugged, scratching the scar across his nose.

How many times had he been told he had too soft of a heart? But it never failed to enrage him to see injustice done to children. And that's what these Wizard and Witch kids were. Children.

Some talented shinobi were Jounin at seventeen years old and captaining missions away from the village. At seventeen, Hogwarts students were finally allowed to practice their magic without supervision.

Thinking about it got him angry all over again. He decided to change the subject before he shouted loud enough to alert the centaurs.

"I'm still learning about these so-called Death Eaters," Iruka said with regret. "There haven't been any more suspicious murders within the week. And their ministry is keeping a tight lid on useful news — they fear they will look incompetent if the general public is aware there is a Dark Lord on the rise." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"That is more or less standard practice. When a village head campaigns on peace, they are forced to keep it, even if it is just an illusion," Yamato said. "Anything else?"

"One other thing." Iruka hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I've noticed a slight chakra drain, most nights."

Yamato tensed. "How serious?"

"As I said, very slight. I don't think I would have even registered any dip in my reserves, but—"

"You are living in a new place, and are hyperaware." Yamato paused to consider. "There is a large amount of natural chakra in the air — no doubt due to many sloppily casted jutsu — sorry, spells. Your body may be putting up a defense to shield yourself from it."

Iruka nodded. He had been thinking along the same lines.

"Please alert me at once if it worsens," Yamato said.

"Of course."

"Until next week, then." Yamato bowed and Iruka did the same.

A moment later, the glade was empty.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Any bets on the DADA three-man teams? :D
> 
> Also, as a heads up there may be a gap week next week. I work a manual labor job outside without air conditioning, and we're forecasted to hit 105 degrees (40.5 C) through the week. That's super unusual in my neck of the woods, and I'll probably be too fried to write and edit. We'll be back to normal afterwards, though!  


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Life got in the way. (It continues to, but this story is so much fun to write...) Thank you for those who have continued to read, and who have commented with encouragement! It makes me a little nervous when I start to mix things up... and that happens a lot on this chapter. I hope you all bear with me.

In Konoha academy the teacher's lounge was a place of sanctuary. It was the one room where students (not even Naruto) never dared to prank. Iruka was a people-person by nature. Back in the academy, he’d retreat to the teacher’s lounge to vent and chat with the other teachers during their mealtime breaks. Rejuvenated, he’d return back to the classroom and continue with his day. 

Like everything else, Hogwarts was different.

There was not a single lock on the door to the teacher’s lounge, which was suspicious. Instantly alert, Iruka reached under his wizarding robes for a senbon dipped in a sedative. Then he stepped inside.

The room was empty of people, and free of any traps he could detect. Still, Iruka moved slowly, examining every hidden corner before he allowed himself to relax.

 _Wizards_ , he thought in a mix of amusement and disgust, stowing away the senbon. _What would it be like to be so trusting that the only doors you locked were the ones you actually wanted to keep people out of?_

There was no coffee machine, but there was a pot of water and an old style kettle hanging over a lit fire. 

Well, he’d made do with less on mission rations.

Selecting herbal tea from these wizard's odd assortments, he put it to steep and sat down down to arranged his notes on the table, taking out his favorite red pen to mark.

His current observations were... upsetting. Frankly, Iruka wondered how wizard children got their aggression out before they went insane.

Children in pre-academy were taught the basics: How to correctly hit, simple blocks, how to roll and duck. Baby stances and forms. Judging by the sloppy way these kids handled themselves, they hadn't even been how to fall correctly. 

Best to start from the beginning, then.

Iruka was recording his ideas on for giving these children a fighting chance when the door opened.

A witch with dirt-stained fingers and a patched hat came bustling in, bunches of flowers in her arms. "Hello!" she said. "You're the first one in so far?" She crossed to the other side of the room and placed the flowers in empty vases. The flowers, Iruka noted, turned their faces towards her, like children looking after their mother. "Well, it's usually like that the first week. We're all run ragged. The students have so much energy! How were your classes?"

Her cheerfulness was a touch forced, but she was clearly trying to be polite. Iruka looked over his paperwork and statistics. "Well, I think."

She chuckled. “I teach in the greenhouse and see you running the students back and forth. It’s good to see them get a little air. I’m Pomona Sprout, by the way.“

Before Iruka could reply, the door opened again. McGonagall strode in, with a lank, dark haired man with equally dark robes behind her.

"Minerva, Severus," Poppy said pleasantly as she arranged the last of the flowers in the vase. "You two have that first week look about you."

 _How can you tell?_ Iruka wanted to know. McGonagall looked as she did when he'd first met her; severe and disapproving. Severus Snape looked as if he smelled something rotten in the room.

Crossing the room, Snape sat on the chair opposite to Iruka. "These first years are particularly hopeless, though there is one or two... possibilities." He glanced across the table. "How are you finding Defense against the Dark Arts, Umino?"

Iruka looked up from tapping his papers straight. He cocked his head, wondered if he should tell the truth and then said, "Surprising."

"Oh?” Sprout chortled. “In what way?"

"Well," he said dryly, "not one of the students seems to know how to throw a punch."

McGonagall made a noise he couldn't quite tell was shock or outrage. Snape stared at him with dark eyes. "Don't tell me you're teaching the children to hit one another."

"Of course not," Iruka said. "I was trying to aggravate one into hitting me."

Snape blinked, McGonagall looked scandalized and Poppy barked a laugh. 

"I assume you've had the fifth year students?" Snape asked.

“Double period, yesterday,” Iruka confirmed.

“If you want my advice, watch for Potter and his group of fans." There was something dark in his eyes, an old anger that Iruka didn't quite trust, but he had noticed Potter, Granger and Weasley were fast friends. 

Iruka glanced across the table. "I'm aware of those three. There won't be a problem."

"I know the subject not my speciality,” McGonagall said in a tight voice, “But we're to teach the children to defend against dark magic. Not to attack one another!"

"Sometimes the best defense is attack," Iruka said.

Her nostrils flared. “This isn't... I mean to say, these are not your child soldiers!”

It took everything, every ounce of self-control and years of engrained politeness for Iruka not to burst out laughing. He'd never found himself on _this_ side of that argument before. 

For a second he wasn't in the comfortable Hogwarts teaching lounge, he was back in a meeting, facing down Kakashi for pushing his own students too far and too fast.

And with that, he felt a little sympathy for McGonagall. She cared. She must be a good teacher. 

“My objective is to teach these students to defend themselves as well as I can in the year I have them.” He smiled with a hint of teeth, thinking of Naruto, of Konohamaru, Hanabi and other ambitious, talented future protectors of Konoha whose Will of Fire already burned bright as the sun. “I do not believe I can bring them to shinobi standards.”

“Well,” she said bitingly. “On that point, we agree.”

The door opened again. Several more professors walked in, Dumbledore among them. If the headmaster sensed the tense atmosphere in the room, he didn’t mention it.

Taking his seat at the head of the table, he called the year’s first staff meeting to order.

 

 

****

 

Harry already expected the unexpected with Sensei Umino’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class, but he was still taken by surprise when he found Luna Lovegood waiting outside the classroom.

“Hello, Harry,” she said in her airy way. “Hermione, Ron.”

“Luna, this is the fifth year’s class,” Hermione said repressively.

“Sensei Umino asked if I would like to transfer, to balance out the teams, you know,” she replied, unconcerned. “It sounded interesting.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look. Sure enough, when they walked into the room there were Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students in their year, as well as one year above and below. Some were missing, including Lavender Brown, Crabbe and Goyle. Draco Malfoy sat sulking in his seat, looking small without his bodyguards. 

“Ginny’s not here, is she?” Ron asked, craning his neck around.

“No,” Luna replied. “I believe she has this class next.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t want to have class with my sister. Or, imagine Fred and George. Oi,” he added, gesturing with his chin towards one of the Patil twins. “Is that Padma or Pavati?”

“Padma,” Harry said. “Don’t you see her Gryffindor badge?”

“Just checking. You never can tell with the classes mixed up.”

“Honestly,” Hermione huffed, pulling him into a seat. 

Sensei Umino walked to the front of the class, his usual clipboard in hand. The class fell silent with remarkable speed. One week in, and he had earned a level of respect usually given to Snape or McGonagall. It might have something to do with his habit of throwing knives.

“Good morning class. I’m sure many have noticed we have new faces today.” His eyes swept the room. “Thank you for your flexibility in scheduling. As I announced last week, going forward you will be graded as a unit of three—”

“Why?”

The question came from Draco Malfoy, who had not bothered to raise his hand. He looked sulky and annoyed without Crabbe and Goyle beside him.

“There is strength in three,” Umino replied evenly. “The triangle is the among the strongest shapes found in nature, the tripod the most sturdy seat. In my village, we train our genin—our lowest rank shinobi—in teams of three, so that when one falls the other two may pick him or her up. Not one person is without their weakness, but with two others covering them, it may not be compounded.”

That made some sense. Harry couldn’t fail to notice that he and his two best friends made three, and they had gone through their share of adventures together.

Hermione raised her hand. Umino called on her.

“Runeology studies often talk of the three poles, to anchor runic based spells,” she said with a deliberate look toward Malfoy. Harry remembered that Malfoy and Hermione shared ancient runes class.

Umino nodded. “As do many shinobi seals.” He glanced again at his clipboard. “When I call your names, please sit with your assigned team members.

“Team One: Millicent Bulstrode, Ronald Weasley, Justin Finch-Flechley.”

Ron made a low groan, and with a long-suffering look went to sit with Justin and Millicent who looked just as mulish. 

“Team Two: Hermione Granger, Stephen Cornfoot, Seamus Finnigan.”

That wasn’t too bad. Cornfoot could be a bit of a toe rag, but Harry wouldn’t have minded being on a team with Seamus. He usually did well in tests, and having Hermione on the same team would bring any grade up.

Umino announced a few more teams (Harry let out a guilty sigh of relief when Neville was placed on a different team. Blaise Zabini who’d been assigned with him looked murderous.)

“Team Seven: Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s optimistic mood vanished as his heart sank straight to his shoes.

“Oooh,” Luna said. She didn’t seem surprised by the team announcement, but then again who could tell with her? “Should we sit over on that other side, or ask Draco to come over here?” She raised a hand and waved at Malfoy, who looked pale from anger.

Harry let out a sigh. “Let’s move.”

He made sure Luna sat in between himself and Malfoy, who had his head turned away as if to ignore them both.

Umino called the rest of the teams, then waited a few minutes for everyone to sort themselves out. He cleared his throat and the class fell quiet.

“Today’s lesson will be on disarming. Does anyone know the most used disarming charm?”

Harry perked up, but Hermione beat him to the punch. 

Hermione’s hand flew up first. “It's, _expelliarmus,_ sir.”

“Excellent. Additional points for Team Two.” Umino made a notation on his clipboard. “We will practice this charm during your double-period at the end of the week. For the rest of this class, you will practice a simple, nonmagical disarming technique. Who will volunteer?”

Surprisingly, Hermione’s hand was not first to rise. Millicent Bulstrode’s was. 

“Please leave your wand at your desk.” Umino turned and grabbed a short stick out of a pile on a table. It was straight, but looked like it had been broken from a tree this morning. “Today, we will use practice wands.” He handed one to Millicent and held one himself. “Point your wand as if we were in a duel. Yes.” He nodded and glanced at the class. “What is the charm?”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” the class called back.

Umino tossed his own wand over his shoulder. “Miss Bulstrode has now disarmed me. What happens next?”

Glances were exchanged around.

“Sensei,” Hermione said cautiously, “By the laws of a wizard duel, she wins.”

“Ah, in a polite wizard _duel_ , yes.” He looked like the word left a bad taste in his mouth. “But if you were fighting for your life? Or the lives of those you love? Do you simply throw your hands up and surrender?” 

He raised his open hands chest high, then in a flash moved, knocking Millicent’s wrist to the side with one hand, snatching her wand with the other. In an instant, he had taken three steps back with Millicent’s practice wand in his hand, pointed at her.

The class fell so silent a pin could have been heard dropping.

Umino nodded then tossed the practice wand back to her. “Again. I will move slowly.”

Millicent held the wand with an expression suggesting the teacher was going to be hard pressed to take it from her grip this time.

“Surprise is your ally,” Umino instructed as he stepped close. “You have perhaps a few seconds between being disarmed and stunned, or worse. Move quick. There must be no hesitation.”

He raised his hands in the classic ‘I surrender’ pose. “Use whatever you can think of to stall your opponent. Misdirect, cringe and beg if you must, but get _within_ grabbing distance. This is vital.”

He extended both hands, chopping at her wrist with the side of one hand in slow motion while grabbing with the other, then paused. “The tip of the wand is now pointed away from myself. However, she may have a spell in reserve. Be prepared for a flash of light, of heat. Whatever happens, you must stay committed.” He continued the motion gripping the base of the wand with his other hand. “Pull down and to the side at the angle to your hip. Remember: keep the wand pointed away.” He pulled the wand from her grasp. “Then step back out of your opponent’s grabbling range. After all, you do not wish the same trick pulled on you.” He mimed pointing the stick back at her before lowering it. “Very good, Miss Bulstrode. Team One will receive additional points today. You may retake your seat.”

Umino looked at the class. “Please collect a practice wand and work with your team. I want no real wands used for this exercise.”

“This is a very interesting lesson,” Luna commented as she returned from collecting the dummy wand for their team. “Much more interesting than our potions class, don’t you think?”

“This is a complete waste of time,” Draco grumbled. “No one with sense holds a prisoner at wand-point from two steps away.”

Except that Wormtail had last year, only for a moment before he trussed Harry up in the graveyard. If Harry hadn’t been shocked by Diggory’s death, if he thought snatching someones wand were possible, could he have done it?

 _Yes_ , he thought.

Luna blinked serenely. “I would like to try, first.” She handed the practice wand over to Draco, who made a show of rolling his eyes but pointed it at her in a correct duelist stance.

Luna blinked her large eyes. “Hmm.” Then she snatched the wand away so fast Draco stumbled forward in surprise.

“Well done,” Harry said, amused.

Draco got his revenge a few rounds later, striking Harry’s thumb joint with the side of his hand so hard that Harry cursed, dropping the practice wand. Smirking, the prat picked it up and held onto it doggedly when Luna attempted to snatch it away.

Luna considered the problem for a moment, head tilted, then stomped on Draco’s toe.

“Ow!” Draco let go the wand and turned, calling out, “Sensei Umino, Lovegood stamped on my toe!”

“She did?” Their teacher came over, eyebrows raised, and nodded at her. “Excellent improvisational technique, Miss Lovegood. Not everyone will give up their wands easily.”

Malfoy sputtered.

Umino moved on, praising Blaise Zabini when he snatched the practice wand out of Neville’s hands so forcefully he ended up snapping the stick in two.

Malfoy watched him go, red with anger.

“Chin up, Malfoy,” Harry suggested. “At least this teacher hasn’t turned you into a ferret, yet.”

Malfoy turned and, irritatingly, snatched the practice wand out of Harry’s hand next. He pointed the end deliberately at his scar. “Watch your mouth, Potter.”

“That was very quick, Draco,” Luna said, studying the Slytherin boy as if he were an interesting bug. “Let me try  to take it from you again.”

Draco looked torn between indignation over this whole exercise and flattery that she had acknowledged his skill. “Fine,” he spat, turning to point it at her. “But if you kick me again, I swear to Merlin—”

He was interrupted as the warning bell rang. 

“Practice wands back on the desk,” Umino called. “Your homework is to jog to the lake and back twice every evening before our next class.” His voice rose over various groans. “I will know if you do not. Dismissed!”

 

****

 

 

Lucius Malfoy ran.

His lungs heaved for air, his legs burned with strain, but he could not stop.

Some half-forgotten instinct twinged. He ducked just in time to avoid a triangular blade aimed for the back of his neck. The thrown knife sunk into the wall an inch from his head with a crack, burying itself halfway to the hilt.

Mouth dry, Lucius slammed through the hallway to his right. Portraits along the walls screamed warning and covered their own eyes, horrified at seeing the head of the household being run down like a dog.

They could not help. He could not even help himself. Lucius had flung every spell he knew, but his curses struck only air. The Ghost had dodged them with liquid grace, as if Lucius were a first year throwing simple jinxes.

The Ghost had closed the distance and snapped Lucius’s wand in half. Now, helpless, all Lucius could do was run.

Lucius reached the enclosed gardens and knew he was trapped. The wards would allow only those who carried a wand to pass: A simple precaution to keep out muggles. Now, it trapped him in with a killer.

A killer who had no wand, but still was able to block and cast spells.

Lucius shook the door anyway, beating on it to no avail. If he had his wand, he could apparate. If he had his wand, he could warn his wife. Now, he was as helpless as a muggle.

A slight scuffing step had him whirling around.

His pursuer was not out of breath, had strolled after Lucius rather than run. He stood before the wizard, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes with a terrible, sloppy posture as if he did not have a care in the world. Turning, he took one look at the wailing portraits and they fell silent as if bespelled. _Exactly_ as if they had been bespelled. There were to be no witnesses to the murder tonight.

“Why?” Lucius spat. “I have always been the Dark Lord’s most faithful servant! Have I not always done what he asked?”

The man shrugged.

Trying to talk his way free was pointless, Lucius knew who truly held the Ghost’s leash tonight, who had given the order. The betrayal burned. Just as much as he loved Narcissa, he despised her sister. 

Now, he had proof the feeling went both ways.

Lucius knew, too, there were questions being raised within the Ministry. Too many mudbloods and enemies of Voldemort had been killed recently. This was how the game was played. His very public murder—a pureblood, former Death Eater—would muddy the waters. Throw suspicion off.

Bellatrix would buy Lord Voldemort time as well as advance their own standing within the inner circle of Death Eaters. With Lucius gone, there would be more room for advancement.

He was about to die. Lucius had always known himself as a selfish man. It surprised him to realize that at the end, his cares weren’t for himself. “Please,” he licked his lips and sank to his knees. “Kill me if you must, but spare my wife… My only son…”

Again, Ghost rolled his shoulder in a shrug. He leaned forward and a bar of moonlight fell across his face. Even for a shinobi, he had an odd look—silvery hair that earned him his nickname, and a handsome face with one eye of steel-blue, the other a whirling red. 

Ghost withdrew one last flat, triangular knife from his robes. “My orders are not for them,” he said in thickly accented English. “Only for you.” 

Lucius opened his mouth to speak—every breath he took was one more that he lived. 

Bellatrix’s pet Ghost moved faster than the eye could track. One sweep of his arm and Lucius’s throat was opened to the bone.

Lucius Malfoy crumpled and died with his murderer standing above him, a bored expression on his bare face.

 


End file.
